


Spring Cleaning

by omphale23



Category: due South
Genre: Challenge fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-14
Updated: 2010-03-14
Packaged: 2017-10-07 23:54:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/70559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/omphale23/pseuds/omphale23
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He indulged himself and imagined Hemingway's description of this particular turn of events. In many ways, the new Ray Vecchio was a character from such a novel, quick thinking and decisive, all masculine energy and thwarted desire.</p><p>Ben, on the other hand, often felt caught in some dark Victorian work, Dostoyevsky or perhaps Conrad. Layers of civilization painted over a set of needs that he was unwilling to expose. Certainly not a suitable companion for a Hemingway narrator.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spring Cleaning

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [](http://community.livejournal.com/inuvikdotcom/profile)[**inuvikdotcom**](http://community.livejournal.com/inuvikdotcom/) challenge. Thanks again to a fabulous beta, [](http://slidellra.livejournal.com/profile)[**slidellra**](http://slidellra.livejournal.com/), who read far more drafts of this than anyone should _ever_ be expected to review.

There is a sequel, [Momentum](http://omphale23.livejournal.com/89165.html), which has a warning [HERE](http://omphale23.livejournal.com/89165.html#cutid3).

Prompt: _63\. Moving? Please remember the Library as you sort out your book collection and the stuff you don't want to take with you. The Library is always willing to accept donations of books._

 

\--

_Across the River and Into the Trees_

He loved reading Hemingway. Admittedly, certain aspects of the man's personal life were less than savory. The misogyny, the alcoholism, the depression and suicide...these were all things that shouldn't be emulated.

But there, in the sparse descriptions and unflinching views of the world, was something that reminded him of home. A shared clarity of purpose, a dedication to the physical, a simplicity his life in Chicago lacked.

He indulged himself and imagined Hemingway's description of this particular turn of events. In many ways, the new Ray Vecchio was a character from such a novel, quick thinking and decisive, all masculine energy and thwarted desire.

Ben, on the other hand, often felt caught in some dark Victorian work, Dostoyevsky or perhaps Conrad. Layers of civilization painted over a set of needs that he was unwilling to expose. Certainly not a suitable companion for a Hemingway narrator.

\--

_A Short History of Canada_

Ray knew he was in trouble the first time he said "aboat."

A guy who went undercover needed to be pretty good about picking up accents. Had to sound like the guy he was supposed to be, and Ray had a real talent for being somebody he wasn't. Languages, too--he was pretty good at picking up enough of anything to get by in a fight--but that wasn't really necessary when you walked (sprinted, jumped, rolled around in the dirt) with the human babel fish.

So being undercover meant learning accents, fast. Being good at undercover (and Ray was, he knew that, even when he didn't know anything else) meant that he knew when to turn that off, knew how to sound like the same guy for only as long as he had to. Hanging out with an unhinged Canadian was no excuse for sounding like an Oilers fan.

The stupid thing with the accent was bad, kept him up at night wondering how deep he was getting. Using a phrase like "thank you kindly" was worse. Ray tried to bluff his way around the problem (aggressive and pissed were usually good enough) but eventually he knew he'd have to face up to it. He sounded like a Canadian and it was Fraser's fault. And Chicago slang (which had more words for asshole than entire languages) sounded goofy coming from a Canadian.

The only option was to spend less time with Fraser. And that wasn't an option.

Ray resigned himself to politeness. Canadian probably didn't even have one way to call someone an asshole. Then again, maybe that's what "thank you kindly" really meant.

\--

Dief ate lots of spicy food. Ray yelled at Ben. Chicago was good.

\--

_Figuring Things Out: A Trainer's Guide to Task, Needs, and Organizational Analysis_

Ben was not, by nature, a devious man. He was forthright and direct, dedicated to ensuring that truth triumphed over (almost) everything. Under normal circumstances he would have abandoned this entire pretense and simply stated his case.

But perhaps subtlety was the best approach. He had no desire to experience the explosion that would follow any outright declaration--especially as this change in circumstances could be entirely unwelcome. An incremental process, in which Ray's natural abilities as a detective would serve to cushion the shock, was infinitely preferable.

Of course, Diefenbaker had no grounds for making such snide comments. He was trying to spare Ray's feelings, not his own nose. Not every exploration of sexual tension ended in fisticuffs, and it was not at all helpful to imply otherwise.

\--

_The Joy of (Gay) Sex_

There should be a word for it, Ray thinks. Some weird word (and if there is, Fraser knows it, because Fraser knows everything that isn't important) for things that make you feel gross and nasty inside. A word that says, "Hey, let's not think about this particular thing you do, because it's really freaking me out in the bad way."

Ray knew full well that finding a sex book in a pile of library stuff that you'd promised to return for someone because, "After all, Ray, there might be other patrons waiting for these particular volumes," fell smack in the middle of the pile of things that (for maybe a good reason, given how much time they spent together in small places) bothered cops.

Only, it was more that this _should_ freak him out, really. This was less discomfort than it was (hope?) curiosity. Because when it was a random guy on guy question, Ray wasn't interested. Much. But when it was Fraser, well, that was a whole different thing. Ray could maybe get behind Fraser liking guys. After all, Ray was a guy. And maybe if Fraser wanted guys, he wanted Ray. And that would be a good thing, maybe.

Ray checked some books out for himself. Never hurt to be prepared.

\--

Dief was bored. Ray bribed him with a cheeseburger . Dief didn't care what they were doing, anyway, and he liked cheeseburgers.

\--

_RCMP administration manual_

He really ought not to be so ridiculously happy. This strange, squirming, gleeful feeling was most assuredly unbecoming in an officer of the law. The urge to break into happy giggles at the mere thought of his current activities did not reflect well upon his employer or his country. It was not at all appropriate.

Ben would give himself a stern talking to, as soon as the strange desire to jump up and down while clapping his hands like a child faded slightly.

Was there a word for it? There must be. Perhaps Ray would know what to call this disconcerting cheer. The next time he managed to catch his breath long enough to get the question out, he'd be sure to ask.

\--

_The English Patient_

He could not believe it. Yes, maybe he was gay (recent events involving Ray, Fraser, and a six-pack of condoms would seem to support that assumption), but he wasn't _gay_.

Fraser disagreed. "It's great Canadian literature, Ray."

Ray stared down at the book in his hand. "It's for girls, Fraser. It's a girly book written for girls. I'm not a girl and I'm not interested."

"It's an exploration of loss, and longing, and a wonderful example of the oblique approach to storytelling central to much contemporary Canadian literature."

Ray translated that back into English while skimming the cover blurb. "There's not even any good sex scenes. There are no fights. It's all about this crispy guy sitting in bed and dying. Slowly." Hey, that was kind of gross. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad.

"Well, yes, there's the superficial reading. But it's much more than that, and part of a broader set of works that seek to retroactively explore a postcolonial perspective in world events." Even pissed, Fraser sounded helpful. Ray wasn't fooled.

"Oh, great. So you want me to read a whole series of chick books. Canadian chick books. Chick books where everybody's wearing layers and pining for the caribou. Just shoot me now."

Fraser looked like he was seriously considering it. "How about this. Read the book, and if you don't like it, I'll be happy to shoot you when you finish."

Ray was pretty sure he lost this round, but what the hell. It was either this or _Canadian Impressionism_. But he was _not_ going to see the movie. There was a line, and he was not going to cross it.

\--

Dief knew that library books were only for staring at. They tasted awful.

\--

_Crate and Barrel Catalog: New Looks for Spring_

It was mortifying, the way that Ray's landlady smirked at them. As if the rent increase ("I'm sorry, Mr. Fraser, but we have a pet fee and I have to enforce it. He's a nice dog, but rules are rules.") and the repeated pounding on the ceiling ("Face it, Fraser, I've got a big mouth. Either learn to keep the noise down, or get used to the neighbors checking out your package at the mailboxes.") weren't sufficient, she _would_ have to be present the morning the deliverymen arrived to assemble the new furniture.

And be lurking in the hall that afternoon, when they carried the pieces that remained from Ray's former bed out to the curb. He suspected that any explanations involving shoddy American craftsmanship would not be appreciated, and so he resigned himself to Ray's snide remarks. Honestly, how many times could he possibly find the statement, "When I told you to fuck me through the mattress, Fraser, I didn't mean it literally," amusing?

\--

_Grimm's Fairy Tales_

If Ray's life was a book, which it wasn't, because if it was he'd have written an adventure to Tahiti or Daytona or something, but if it was, this would be the chapter where the narrator skipped over the boring, cold, smelly parts on the way to the happy ending. Not that he wasn't having a blast, complaining about the snow and the lack of hot showers and the way that they couldn't get naked on a regular basis. It was fun, in a "god please don't let me die and be eaten by the caribou when I haven't had sex with Fraser in nine days" kind of way.

It didn't make for much of a story, though, and he was damn glad to see the lights of Inuvik because it meant they could get on with the happily ever after part.

\--

Dief missed running through the snow all day. And cheeseburgers. One more than the other.

\--

_Gray's Anatomy_

He had been hesitant to give in to these base impulses and request his partner's continued presence. After all, Ray had a life in Chicago, and he clearly disliked the ("fucking eternal, Fraser. An unending pile of snow, and not a ski resort in sight") Arctic environment. He would not ask too much, would not require Ray to (perhaps apologetically) refuse to cross that peculiar border between circumstance and permanence.

Upon reaching Inuvik, he resigned himself to the situation and purchased a series of open-ended airline tickets. Ray was less pleased than he had expected, but gathered his equipment and boarded the aircraft with only a token protest.

Ben was sure that his heart was going to tear itself out of his chest, rip free and leave him gasping and empty in the middle of the terminal, but when the tiny black dot finally disappeared from view he could find no physical carnage. Proof once again that the human body is amazingly resilient.

\--

_How to Heal a Broken Heart in 30 Days: A Day-by-Day Guide to Saying Good-bye and Getting On With Your Life_

Ray couldn't believe it. He honestly couldn't figure out how they got from there—there being the two of them (a matched set, a front united against crime and evildoers and the threat of frozen appendages and he had loved every insane minute of it even when he thought it might kill them both in really disgusting ways) wrapped up in each other all night, and spinning through an endless expanse of cold all day—to here.

Here being Ray, in Chicago air that felt like wool shrunk in the wash, and Fraser, probably hiking around talking to the goddamn polar bears, and the two of them in very different places.

He started spending his spare time (twelve hours at work seven nights a week, and that left about a million hours he needed to fill) down at State and Congress, brushing up on Canadian immigration laws.

He submitted visa forms, and filled out questionnaires, and secretly thanked his mother for being so freaking disappointed that he had gone back to college just to get her to shut up. It wasn't in anything useful, and the parts about grammar hadn't stuck, but he still had the diploma. Class of 1990, and that put him over the top by exactly three points. A couple years of residency, a job offer, and he was golden. All he needed was a big hat.

When he was ready, he took a trip to the post office. And went back to his apartment to pack.

\--

Ray stopped yelling, because Ben had sent him away. Dief missed pizza. Ben said he was smiling, but Dief wasn't stupid.

\--

_True North_

There was no note. No indication of the source of the gift, beyond his name and address scrawled in a familiar hand. Ben carefully checked between the pages and the corners of the envelope. He steamed off the binding, thinking that perhaps Ray had inserted a message indicating his whereabouts and requesting immediate assistance. He resorted to reading the text, searching for some code buried in the descriptions of history and scenery. His investigations were fruitless; when he telephoned for an explanation the number had been disconnected. There was nothing at all to explain the sudden arrival of a copy of this particular volume.

Nothing except his own belief that it meant something. That perhaps Ray wasn't happy either, and that one of them had finally made a decision.

The postmark was three days earlier. Assuming that Ray drove his car at his usual breakneck pace, he could expect a visitor (a roommate, a friend, a partner? A lover?) in perhaps a week. Ben considered the impending closure of the Mackenzie ferry and revised his estimate. Two weeks.

\--

_1967 Pontiac GTO Repair Manual_

Ray knew it was stupid to drive the GTO to Inuvik. For six months each year he might be able to drive it up and down Mackenzie Street. Maybe. The rest of the time, he'd be paying to keep it garaged. But he needed to transplant as much of his life as he could, so he boxed up the bookshelves and the bedroom and his 18 essential bottles of hair products and a turtle that looked less than happy about the new surroundings. And a hat.

Because Ray needed this to be permanent, needed it to be real. For both of them.

And it couldn't be real if he left the Goat behind. Stella and the Academy had taught him a few things. If he left his car behind, left something important in Chicago, there would be a piece of himself to come back to, and Ray wanted all his pieces close enough to touch. He left his extra keys on the counter.

He was ready. Ray climbed into the car, nodded at the turtle, shook out his arms, and headed north.

\--

Ray sent a book. It wasn't for Dief. Ben carried it everywhere.

\--

_Fashion (A Crash Course)_

Ben took a few minutes to change into his uniform and emerged to a very tense, very grimy, very determined-looking Ray Kowalski on his front porch. Wearing quite possibly the ugliest example of the haberdasher's art he'd ever seen. Surely straw didn't naturally grow in that odd shade of chartreuse.

He'd never been so glad to see someone in his life. "Ray? I didn't expect to see you until next week."

Ray nodded his head slowly. A row of tiny blue pompoms jiggled. "I caught the last ferry."

Of course he had. Ridiculous to assume that any other option was possible. Ray didn't need planning; he had providence and instinct on his side. "I hadn't planned for you to arrive quite so quickly."

Perhaps the problem was the whole outfit. The combination of orange flannel shirt, khaki pants, and colorful headgear looked positively unhinged. Ray tilted his head and gestured with a toothpick at the driveway. "I got confused about the conversion thingy. It's eighty miles to fifty kilometers, right?"

Really, that grin was almost predatory. Ben felt his face heat. "Not quite. Still, I've got to leave shortly, and I'll be gone for a few days. Maybe you'd rather stay in town?"

"Nope. Just came from town. I'm here, I'll stay here."

"If you're certain. You're welcome to use anything you like." He needed to leave. Right now, before he did something he wouldn't regret. "I'll be going then." Ben found himself unable to step around Ray, who was lounging insouciantly in the doorway. He'd never encountered a hat brim so wide. "Ray, I have to report before I leave. I really must be going."

"Your C.O. says to tell you he expects you back on the job Monday. And he hopes it's nothing serious, you not being able to get out of bed and all."

"Ah." Ben hesitated, unsure about how to correct the misunderstanding without insulting Ray's intelligence. "But I feel quite well. And I'm not in bed."

Ray tossed his hat through the door and moved to follow it. "Not yet, you're not."

Well, that explained rather a lot.

\--

_A History of Experimental Film and Video_

The first time Fraser left on a long patrol, Ray kissed him goodbye and settled in to watch some decent movies. He'd brought along (packed in a box on top of Fraser's trunk, and he was damn lucky they didn't all get busted up on that rough stretch of road outside Regina) all the classics—_Rocky_, _Die Hard_, every Van Damme flick, and _Bullitt_. He watched them all, in order, twice.

Ray thought that maybe he slept better when Fraser was home. He couldn't be sure, because he hadn't really slept at all since Fraser left. It wasn't anything he thought about for very long.

When Fraser came home, Ray welcomed him (three times, which was pretty damn impressive for a guy who'd been up six days straight) and then slept from Sunday night straight through Monday and well into Tuesday afternoon.

The second time Fraser left on patrol, Ray watched the rest of the tapes in his collection. He decided that _Bridget Jones' Diary_ and _Debbie Does Dallas_ weren't really meant to be a double feature. He learned all the moves for the Time Warp. He maybe even cried when Leonardo DiCaprio died at the end of _Titanic_. He sat through _The English Patient_, but he refused to enjoy it.

When Fraser came home, Ray asked for cable television. He was very polite and Fraser said he'd see what he could do.

The third time Ray was left by himself, he planned ahead. He caught up on all the _Doctor Who_ episodes he'd missed, from 1964-1978. Then he watched all of the episodes, in order. He thought the Third Doctor was a bit queer because there was an awful lot of standing around in closets going on. Did closets mean the same thing in England that they meant in the States?

When Fraser came home that time (two days late, and he couldn't have called or sent up a smoke signal, or something? Because it wasn't as if Ray was a mind reader) he threatened to kick someone in the head if there wasn't a Mel Gibson film or some decent porn in the mail within the week. Then he tried to suck Fraser's tongue down his throat, because he needed to make sure that the seriousness of the situation was clear.

He wasn't happy about sitting around doing nothing, and he wasn't blaming anyone but himself, but this was not working.

Fraser ordered a video camera and some blank tapes, which wasn't quite the same thing as HBO, but hey, Ray was desperate. After three days he ran out of tape. They both agreed that filmmaking was probably not one of his talents. Fraser insisted on keeping one from the day that Ray found himself bored and horny and trapped by a freak snowstorm.

The fifth time Fraser left on patrol, Ray got drunk. Plastered, smashed, completely shitfaced. He woke up the next afternoon with a black eye, split knuckles, and a bill for $450.

The morning after that, he gave up and went to the library because it was either that or risk freezing to death in a snowdrift.

Getting his name on a library card was surprisingly easy, and not nearly as expensive as, according to the receipt he found in his wallet, three pilsner glasses, one Moosehead mirror, two chairs and a pool cue.

\--

Dief missed jelly doughnuts and Animal Planet.

\--

_The Call of the Wild_

When Ben returned (early this time), Ray was reading Jack London. Ray didn't even glance up from the page when he stripped out of the uniform and walked (naked, blushing, and quickly—when had it gotten so cold out?) for the shower. Ray wasn't hungry when Ben (scrubbed and shaved and dressed in a blue shirt that seemed to have shrunk in the wash, as Ray still hadn't stopped drying everything on the energy-inefficient highest setting) offered to make pizza. Ray was just getting to the good part, and for the love of god, couldn't Ben shut up for just one minute and let him read?

Ben laced up his boots, refastened his parka, warmed up the truck, drove into town, bought a satellite dish, came home, assembled the equipment, turned on a Blackhawks game, and took off his clothing. Again.

And then he waited.

\--

_Finding Your Own North Star_

Ray almost lost it that first December, when he realized that the sun was going down and wouldn't come back up until January. But Ray was strong, he was determined, and he was going to make this work. He could live without pizza, without baseball, without takeout, without tomato, relish, pickles, and celery salt. He could forget 57th Street and Kedzie and Grant Park and the way the sunrise shone across the lake after a storm. Ray could live without light, even, if it meant he got to have Fraser. He could.

Fraser needed this to work as much as Ray did, maybe more. Too many people left him behind, and one more was too much. Ray could do without breathing if he had too. Fraser could breathe for both of them. They could do this.

\--

Ray slept whenever Ben wasn't home. Dief thought he might like to visit Ante.

\--

_301 Stylish Storage Ideas_

Ray didn't understand his aversion to closets, any more than he understood the Northern Lights. It was one more thing that he had chosen to accept, chosen to ignore in exchange for a warm body beside him and a new home in a place he was growing to love. Ben couldn't tell if the decision to renounce Chicago and everything he knew still ached, but he knew that the substitution had been unfair.

He was unable to sacrifice his own happiness, however, and so he waited for Ray to leave. It was limbo, the Borderlands, a leap from a roof all over again. Ray said he was staying, but Ben didn't understand why.

\--

_Commitment Ceremonies on a Budget_

There was a real weight to the ring this time. No symbolic gesture, he could feel it on his finger, slowing his hand and balancing the bracelet on his wrist. Balancing him—logic and instinct, speed and determination. Platinum, not gold, steady and tough and solid with a shared future. The sort of ring that left a mark.

Even better, this time he didn't have to worry about impressing the in-laws, or having them drop by unannounced. No more stumbling out of bed to the sight of a cheery parent, humming and making pancakes. No more awkward conversations about childbearing hips.

The first time he mentioned this to Fraser, he hadn't expected (hysterical) giggling. Ray added that to the list of things he didn't really want to know. Along with the locks on the closets, and paying cash (it was pink, but it spent just fine) at the grocery for steaks when they were perfectly capable of shooting their own damn caribou. Some things it didn't pay to question.

\--

Dief never liked caribou the way he liked spaghetti.

\--

_Civilization and Its Discontents_

Ray's melancholy was lighter, less a part of their everyday lives and more an occasional barrier. He had finally made the adjustment to his liminal status, made a decision to become part of his surroundings in several encouraging ways. Even as spring approached, his attitude remained calm, his mind on the future he'd chosen for them. Ben was relieved to see that Ray's agitation had been replaced by a deliberate effort to make the cabin his home, obviously as a response to his decision to settle into his new life. They spoke of adding an office, and of joining the local curling league.

Ben told himself that, in this, permanence was an option.

\--

_Cultures in Collision: The Interaction of Canadian and U.S. Broadcasting Policies_

Fraser had that saintly look on his face that meant he was about to say something annoying. "Ray, we're hardly isolated. There are people around, and you don't need a larger television. There are books, and the local radio station is surprisingly popular." Yeah, there it was. Right on time.

"Fraser, the radio is playing country. Twanging guitars and guys losing their trailers. It's suicide music." Ray didn't think any of the beams in the cabin would support his weight, but that didn't mean he was eager to try his luck.

"It's the same music they played when I was a child. I don't see the problem."

Of course. Fraser could never see a problem when it was staring him in the face. "You grew up with this crap? That explains a lot."

\--

Ray's music sounded awful. Dief slept in the barn for a while, because he ate all Ray's cookies. It was quieter there.

\--

_Neverwhere: A Novel_

Ben finally felt comfortable leaving Ray to his own devices. Recently, he'd been spending a great deal of time learning the area, venturing out to investigate various local events and attractions. When Ben asked if he wished for company, Ray sometimes shrugged his shoulders and accepted it. At other times, he expressed the wish to be alone, and Ben respected that. After all, Ray was seeking to find his own place in Inuvik, and he could hardly do so if Ben hovered.

It was healthy that they spend time apart.

\--

_Library Services for Career Planning, Job Searching, and Employment Opportunities_

The local librarian was about eighty-five years old. Nice lady, Edith Something-weird-that-sounded-like-a-hairball, but lately she couldn't climb the stepladder to put the books away, and the two kids they got in part time couldn't be trusted to order anything that didn't have "Hockey," "Sex," or "College" in the title. Ray was hanging out in his usual chair, surfing the internet for something that wasn't porn, checking the Cubs stats and the weather in Phoenix, when Edith sat down next to him. He turned down the volume on his headphones, thankful once again for the man who invented internet radio.

"You know, you spend a lot of time here."

"The company's good. And Ben won't buy a computer." Both of which were true, really. Plus it was harder for the walls to close in when they were full of bookshelves.

Edith squinted at him. "Corporal Fraser tells me that you studied literature in university."

Sometimes being polite could buy you some time. "Yes, ma'am. Not that I've used it much since then."

"And police officers, they spend a lot of time filling out forms and things, don't they?"

Ray thought this might be one of the strangest conversations he'd ever had with a four-foot-eight Inuit grandmother. "You could say that. Gotta have records for everything."

Edith was already nodding her head before he finished the sentence. "True, true. And you're at a bit of a loose end right now, waiting for your paperwork to go through, aren't you? Maybe a little bored?"

Ray was beginning to see where this was going. He wasn't sure he wanted to follow it. "Guess so. Not much of a housework kind of guy." Also true, also not really the point.

Edith stood up and smacked her hands together. "Well, that's settled, then. Thirty hours a week, twelve dollars an hour, we'll work around Corporal Fraser's patrol schedule," and Ray did _not_ want to think about Edith making sure he still got laid, "and you can start today. Chop, chop, young man. I can't figure out this new procurement system, but we need to update the magazine collection. Let's see what you can do."

And just like that, Ray had a job. In a fucking library. In Inuvik. Life was funny. He wanted to cry.

\--

Ray showed his teeth. Ben thought Ray was happy, but Dief thought he wasn't, maybe.

\--

_Dare to Connect: Reaching Out in Romance, Friendship, and the Workplace_

Ben arrived early, quietly locking the entrance and spinning the sign to read CLOSED. He crossed the main room to the office, stopping to lean against the door. Ray seemed oblivious, hunched over a stack of purchase orders and muttering quietly about cutbacks. His French seemed to be improving, although his grasp of anatomy was disappointingly inconsistent.

Still, his appointment as a member of the library staff was exciting. It meant that they could finally begin concrete planning for his immigration. Ray's resulting eager exploration ("I'm in, Fraser! Your stupid country won't know any better than to take me! I can do whatever I want!") of personal boundaries was...liberating.

Stepping away from the doorframe, he reached for the light switch, plunging the small room into darkness and drawing an irritated huff from Ray.

Ben's eyes adjusted quickly, and he walked around the desk to capture Ray's face in his hands. There were several boundaries he was interested in exploring, as well. After a few minutes he drew back, pleased by the way Ray followed his lips blindly. Finally opening his eyes, Ray pointed out the obvious. "Fraser, there's a window."

Really, someone so interested in encouraging his spontaneous side should be more flexible when it came to such things. It had taken a great deal of planning to arrange this assignation. "I can see that there's a window. But the building is closed, and the reflection on the glass should prevent anyone seeing inside the room."

Ray considered this. He looked amused. "Christ. Public make-out sessions. You know, this put a whole new spin on your 'raised by librarians' shtick."

Ben went back to his original plan, which involved less talking, more moaning, less clothing, and more sex. It was an excellent plan. Ray was a bright man, he'd catch up. Still, he deserved some sort of response. To whatever it was he was babbling about. "Hmm?"

Ray finally saw sense and resumed his participation in events. Ben hissed as long fingers found their way inside his shirt and down the back of his jeans. Ray's voice was strained. "Never mind. Just do me a favor and close the damn blinds. I don't want to give Edith a heart attack if she comes in to check on us."

Ah, well, this was a concern he could alleviate. "That seems unlikely. She told me to have fun when we met in the parking lot."

Ray whipped his head back and turned a rather unfortunate shade of red. Ben considered administering the Heimlich maneuver, but before he could ascertain the source of the choking, Ray regained his voice. "If I die of embarrassment, I don't want you to find someone else. Don't remarry. I want you to stay alone forever. You'll deserve it for telling my boss that I'm getting lucky in the office. Evil should not be rewarded."

"Understood, Ray."

\--

_Thirty Years in the Arctic Regions_

He held on through a summer, and a winter, and another summer. He felt like the sky was sitting on his chest and all that open space gave him hives, but he tried. He really tried to survive the cold and the dark and the days and days on end of coming home to an empty cabin and sleeping on the couch because being alone in their bed made his chest ache.

He went to work like a normal person and he ate venison like a Canadian person and he let Fraser think that it was enough, that he could really be this person for keeps. That he could forget all the silence because they loved each other and love was supposed to be plenty, be everything that he needed, be like a light or a fire or something comforting.

Like a big warm (smothering) red wool blanket. Which wasn't fair, because there were good times, too. They were just getting hard to remember, and the bad times were getting longer. Ray was afraid he'd start taking it out on Fraser, and that wasn't fair, either.

When the sun went down the next winter, Ray knew he had to go home. He started packing two days after Fraser left for Tuktoyuktuk, and this time he was going to travel light. The shampoo went in the trash. The GTO stayed in the garage (Ray paid another year's rent, and left Stella's address in case it needed to be renewed. Hoped that thinking ahead would keep a piece of him safe.) The community center took the turtle and the tank. The books…well, maybe they could come in handy at the library. This was his last chance to give something back in exchange for dog-earing the pages of the entire Arctic Exploration section. He could stand to face Edith's disappointed tongue clicking once more, if it meant having room in his duffle for a couple of threadbare henleys.

Ray didn't think too hard about why he wanted to leave pieces of himself in Inuvik. About how being the one to leave felt worse than being the one left. About why he was writing a note instead of saying goodbye. About how sometimes having all your reasons for living in one place wasn't enough to keep you alive, and if that was the case you needed to find new reasons.

Besides, this way Fraser would have the rest of this patrol (twelve more days, and Ray wasn't even sure if it was the dark and the cold or the weeks of loneliness that hurt worse. If it was being alone, he was totally screwed) to be happy. He deserved those extra days.

Fraser deserved more than he could give, even if it was everything Ray had.

\--

Ray didn't yell at Dief for licking his ear. Dief tried to tell Ben to stay, but they left anyway.

\--

_Fear: A Cultural History_

Ben was uneasy as he began his routine circuit. Ray had looked tense when he left, and something niggled at the back of his mind. Was there an important anniversary he was missing? A community event he ought to attend?

It was unlikely, but even so Ben couldn't shake the impression that he'd missed a crucial piece of information. Ray had been doing well, but yesterday morning he'd been nervous, agitated about Ben's schedule. Even Diefenbaker was reluctant to set out.

Perhaps Ben was merely growing too fond of having a partner, uneasy with spending time alone. Even so, he saw no reason not to behave on instinct in this one instance. He turned back.

\--

_Mistake Making_

After a restless night and a morning spent wishing he was a good person, Ray checked out the cabin one last time. Took in his half-empty duffle (his clothes, his glasses, a magazine to read on the trip), the box for charity, the way that the (happy, god, they looked so happy and wasn't that just a kick in the head) photos on the wall held no indication that he was leaving, told no stories of why. Fraser would say he understood, but his eyes would ask questions that Ray couldn't answer.

They'd end up angry and sad and his courage was failing him and he really just needed to get out of here. Before he did something stupid, like unpacking his bag. Again.

Ray loaded the books into the Jeep and left for town. Maybe someone else could use them to piece things back together. He was too exhausted to figure it out.

\--

Dief ran all the way home. Ray was going away. Nobody asked what Dief wanted.

\--

_The First Circle_

He hadn't been quick enough. A few minutes spent explaining his unscheduled return at the detachment, a few more checking to see whether Ray was still at work and reclaiming a box that was surely donated in error, and far too much time spent staring in disbelief at the note on the kitchen table. This time the plane wasn't even a speck. This time Ray had gone willingly.

There wasn't any point in trying to make him change his mind, Ray wrote. This was for the best.

Ben was very, very tired of being told that things were for his own good. He was tired of being dutiful, and he was tired of being stoic, and he was tired of being alone. There wasn't anything left of him but the exhaustion and the regret and the knowledge that it would take more than he could give to fix this. He wouldn't choose between Ray and his home. He didn't want to make that decision. He couldn't. It was too much. Hemingway had it all wrong.

\--

Ray didn't come back. Ben was too quiet. Dief missed Chicago.

\--

_Finding Your Way Home_

When Ray came home from work one day in June (23 hours on duty, and the paperwork wasn't finished on O'Reilly but Welsh threatened him with "a painful and gruesome death, Detective, the likes of which this city has never seen," if he didn't go home and get some sleep) there was a car in his parking spot. A car with two doors, a seat covered in wolf hair, and who-cared-how-many coats of black paint.

Ray stumbled up the stairs. He knew he'd left his overdue books on the seat of the Chevy but one more day (week, month, he was never leaving his apartment again if Fraser was inside, please, please, please let him be here for good and if he was then Ray would never ask for anything more ever) wasn't going to matter. He couldn't find his keys, but the door was open and Fraser was (wearing the brown uniform, that had to be a sign, Ray loved the brown uniform, and not just because it was easier to take off) standing in the living room. Waiting. Looking like he'd spent six months sitting in the dark and getting hit with a brick.

"Ray? I brought you back your books, and your…" was all he got out before they hit the couch. Hard.

"Just tell me you're staying," Ray muttered when they broke apart to breathe. Fraser's fingers drifted over the ring that Ray couldn't leave behind. The ring that stayed with Ray when he left everything else that mattered in Canada.

Fraser stared at the ceiling. Nodded slowly.

Ray closed his eyes against the late afternoon sunlight.

\--

Dief liked pizza. And doughnuts. And cheeseburgers. Ray bought him lots of spicy food. Chicago was still good.


End file.
